


These Assembled Sovereignties

by magnificentbastards



Series: liberté, égalité, fraternité [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, the author has nothing more to add, the revolution is led by kinky threesome porn, ~chief/guide/centre~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentbastards/pseuds/magnificentbastards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'For his part, Enjolras finds there is leadership in this just as there is when he speaks at the head of a crowd, or calls orders above the chaos of a riot, or sends his lieutenants to their work throughout the city.</p><p>He glances up from his book to look Courfeyrac in the eye and say, “I plan on completing my work tonight. If you want me to finish it sooner rather than later, I will need you to keep quiet; perhaps I will have Combeferre gag you.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Assembled Sovereignties

**Author's Note:**

> this is a birthday present for the inimitable [Cat](http://montreuil-sur-mer.tumblr.com/). also I have been referring to it as “[ _de même que les incendies éclairent toute la ville_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/765889): DIRECTOR’S CUT DVD XXXTRA - KINKY THREESOME PORN DELETED SCENE” which I feel sums it up quite effectively.

\--

Courfeyrac, peering over Combeferre’s shoulder, says, “I cannot believe you are refusing to abandon Roman land law reform for us – we are _far_ more interesting than the Gracchi, Enjolras.”

“That is debatable, perhaps,” Combeferre says, shifting on the bed to sit against the headboard and look across the room, “however Courfeyrac does have a point; at the rate you were writing earlier, I’d have thought that essay would have been completed hours ago.”

“It was,” Enjolras says, after a moment, dipping the nib of his pen in the inkwell on his desk.

“Then come to bed! If you neglect us much longer I shall take it as a personal insult,” Courfeyrac announces, “probably I should have to duel you, and that would inconvenience all of us.”

Enjolras writes, _The Social Contract will, with common force , defend and protect the person and goods of each associate, while allowing him to remain nonetheless free and in obedience to himself._ That done, and turning the page of the book in front of him, he says, “I am abridging the first book of Rousseau’s Social Contract for our associate in the school for the poor on Rue du Temple, as a literary exercise.”

“A worthy endeavour,” says Combeferre, with a nod, “and one I would be more than willing to assist with, should you require me to –”

“Ah, but the Social Contract will still be here tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras glances up in time to see him pull Combeferre down to the pillows for a long kiss that looks as though it is intended as much for Enjolras’ benefit as the participants’.

“Time, as always, is of the essence,” Enjolras says, scanning the page in front of him.

“Certainly you are correct in that, my friend; I will not wait for you all night!”

“There is no need to wait for me, proceed as you wish.”

 _The clauses of this contract have never formally been set forth, though they are accepted and recognised everywhere,_ Enjolras writes. The sounds from the bed imply that Combeferre is distracting Courfeyrac from his argument with kisses, though Enjolras does not look up to check.

It is not long before Courfeyrac is talking to him again: “I propose a compromise; you need not choose between Rousseau and our company when the man’s writings could define our activities,” and Enjolras is momentarily at a loss to Courfeyrac’s meaning, until Courfeyrac links his fingers together, hooks his arms around one of the bedposts, arches his back in an entirely suggestive manner, and quotes with a smirk: “ _Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains._ ”

“You are incorrigible,” Combeferre says, though he looks mildly amused.

Enjolras, presumably just as Courfeyrac intended, finds himself distracted by thoughts of how the three of them passed an evening a few days ago; the image of Courfeyrac bound to the headboard, begging Combeferre to use a switch on him, is not an easy one to forget.

This sort of nocturnal activity is becoming almost a regular occurrence for the three of them; it is rather unorthodox, perhaps. When they first discussed the matter Courfeyrac had informed them that he enjoys the attention and the physical stimulation, perverse as it might seem – quite as much as Combeferre enjoys bestowing it, apparently. For his part, Enjolras finds there is leadership in this just as there is when he speaks at the head of a crowd, or calls orders above the chaos of a riot, or sends his lieutenants to their work throughout the city.

He glances up from his book to look Courfeyrac in the eye and say, “I plan on completing my work tonight. If you want me to finish it sooner rather than later, I will need you to keep quiet; perhaps I will have Combeferre gag you.”

On the bed, Combeferre sits upright. Courfeyrac, grinning wide and self-satisfied, says, “I am afraid if you do not I shall simply carry on talking for hours, and you will get nothing done whatsoever!”

“Then, Combeferre,” says Enjolras, “if you will.”

Combeferre presses the tips of his front two fingers against Courfeyrac’s lips, briefly, looking Courfeyrac over as though he is an anatomical diagram in a tome borrowed from the medical library at Necker; then he pulls off Courfeyrac’s already loosened cravat and folds the wider parts of it neatly in half widthways.

“Stay still,” Combeferre murmurs, and Enjolras watches as he takes Courfeyrac’s jaw in one hand to presses Courfeyrac’s mouth open, “and stay _silent_ ; shake your head if you wish me to stop.”

He ties the cravat quite professionally at the back of Courfeyrac’s head, testing the tightness before tilting Courfeyrac’s head this way and that by his grip on his jaw, assessing his work. Courfeyrac’s smile is concealed by the fabric over his mouth, but Enjolras can see it still present in the look in his eyes.

“Is there anything in particular you would have me do?” Combeferre asks, glancing over to the desk.

Enjolras looks the two of them over, his pen poised in the air above the page, and says, “Kiss him – anywhere except his prick, for the moment. I imagine he would like you to leave marks.”

Combeferre inclines his head before turning back to face Courfeyrac. For a moment they simply look at each other, unmoving; then, all at once, Combeferre pushes Courfeyrac backwards with no small amount of force, pinning him to the bed with one hand planted firmly on his chest and the other grasping his hip.

 _The clauses of the Social Contract may be reduced to one -- the total and unreserved alienation of each associate, together with all his rights, to the whole community_ , Enjolras writes, as on the bed a few feet away Combeferre holds Courfeyrac’s straining hips still and bites the side of his neck hard enough to bruise.

He scans the pages of the book on his desk and formulates a number of possible abridgements for the key sentences in his head while Combeferre undresses Courfeyrac, almost silently save for the rustle of fabric and the occasional quiet instruction; “Raise your arms”, or “Lift your hips”. He comes to the end of his page as he is writing _for there would be no common superior to judge the particular rights one individual in society could retain,_ and takes a pinch of sand from the jar on his desk to scatter over the drying ink as he sets the paper aside.

As he does so, he glances up for the first time in a few minutes to see Courfeyrac (now entirely unclothed, with the various components of his suit draped over the back of the nearest chair) curling his fists tight in the bedsheets at his side as Combeferre kisses his chest and digs his nails into the lower part of Courfeyrac’s ribs, leaving curved marks that show up white as he runs his fingers downwards.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, and though Combeferre lifts his head from the marks he is sucking onto Courfeyrac’s chest he leaves his hands where they are, “How would you summarise the penultimate point of Book One, Chapter Six?”

Combeferre trails his fingers down the middle of Courfeyrac’s torso, stopping short of his navel to run his thumb along the indent of Courfeyrac’s hipbone. Courfeyrac, having raised his head from where he had thrown it back against the pillow, watches. After a moment, Combeferre says, “ _Each man, in giving himself to all, gives himself to nobody_? The text speaks for itself, there is no need for reformulation in this instance; only eliminate the unnecessary exposition and keep to the bones of the argument.”

Enjolras nods, taps his pen on the rim of the inkwell, and writes the suggested paragraph in silence. When he looks up to turn the page of his book, Courfeyrac’s hands are fisted in the sheets once more, gripping them so tightly that his knuckles are nearly white, and Combeferre has moved to lie between Courfeyrac’s legs and kiss, slow and teasing, at the inside of his upper thighs.

 _Each of us puts his person and all his power in common under the supreme direction of the general will, and we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole_ , Enjolras transcribes.

He does not look up when a muffled, desperate sound from the bed indicates that Courfeyrac has let some noise slip past his makeshift gag; he does raise his head, however, when the moan is followed by the sudden slap of skin on skin. Courfeyrac is sprawled on the bedsheets with bruises bitten on the inside of his thigh and a rising red handprint on his cheek, and the way he is staring up at Combeferre suggests that if they untied the cravat around his mouth he would not hesitate to beg for more.

“I told you to remain silent,” Combeferre says quietly, “and you did not; something will have to be done about that, Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras, watching them, gestures to the bare strip of wall beside the end of the bed and says, “The insurrection must have its discipline.”

It is not as though Enjolras had never, before the last few weeks, known that beneath Combeferre’s gentleness there was a base of solid steel – more that he had not often seen it in practice, and certainly not in the form of a physicality bordering on the outright violent. He finds it rather affecting. At his words, Combeferre steps off the bed; then he reaches forward to tangle his fingers in Courfeyrac’s curled hair and pull him roughly to his feet.

Combeferre slams Courfeyrac against the wall and steps forward to press himself against Courfeyrac’s back, pushing his hips against Courfeyrac’s and biting the base of his neck before stepping backwards to assess him, places Courfeyrac’s forearms and palms flat against the wall on either side of his torso and orders him to _keep them there_ , and to _keep still._ Then he brings the flat of his hand down hard against the very top of Courfeyrac’s thighs, three times in quick succession, Courfeyrac’s whole body jerking forward slightly with each slap.

For the first time tonight it is something of an effort for Enjolras to look away. He writes with a steady hand, nonetheless: _This act of association creates a moral and collective body, formed by the union of all persons, which takes the name of State, Body Politic, or Republic._

The sounds of Combeferre’s hand connecting with Courfeyrac’s skin are, of course, louder than Courfeyrac’s muffled moan had been; but that is beside the point. Enjolras keeps his head tilted downward but his eyes fixed on them as he turns a page of the book on his desk.

Courfeyrac’s fingers are curled against the wall as though desperate for something to hold on to, and the tension in his hips suggests he is torn between pushing them back toward Combeferre’s hand or forward to rub his still untouched prick against the wall. Combeferre is hitting Courfeyrac with an expression of pure, concentrated focus on his face, as though half the National Guard could storm the room and he would not look up. Each of his strokes lands perfectly on top of the rising, blush-red mark left by the previous one.

Enjolras transcribes throughout, and as he writes ( - _that_ _the forces of the city are stronger than those of an individual; and so, therefore, public possession is greater_ \- ) he allows himself to fall into the perfect, all-consuming serenity that overtakes him at moments like these. With his work nearing completion on his desk and his friends beside his bed, Enjolras feels his purpose is laid out as clear as the path ahead of him.

 _The fact on which the whole social system should rest is as follows: though men may be unequal by strength and intelligence, they must be made equal by legal right, convention, and morality,_ he concludes, and scatters sand on the drying ink, and puts down his pen.

By the wall, Combeferre brushes his fingers across the marks he has left, leans to kiss the back of Courfeyrac’s neck, and then brings the flat of his hand down to connect hard with the skin where his fingers had been. Enjolras stands up; the other two look around at once.

Enjolras has been clad in waistcoat, shirt, and trousers since returning from lectures early that afternoon; now he divests himself of waistcoat and cravat, letting his shirt fall open at the neck as he folds the silk between his hands to mimic the fabric tied around Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“You have completed your exercise, then,” Combeferre says, keeping Courfeyrac against the wall with a hand pressed between his shoulderblades.

“Indeed,” says Enjolras, and as he passes his desk he pulls the chair out from behind it, places it in the centre of the floor, and proceeds to cross the room and stand in front of the other two. With a gesture of one hand he has Combeferre turn Courfeyrac around; that done, he looks Courfeyrac over.

“I have put Rousseau away for the night,” says Enjolras to Courfeyrac, reaching out to run his fingers along Courfeyrac’s jawline and then down, to press into the bruises Combeferre has left at the base of his neck, “I hope you are happy about it. Sit down.”

Courfeyrac crosses the room to sink into the chair, and he winces only slightly at it; Enjolras rubs the silk of the cravat in his hand between his thumb and forefinger. He steps slowly round Courfeyrac to the back of the chair, where he stands motionless for a moment before reaching to grip Courfeyrac’s forearms, twist them behind his back, and press his palms together. The strain shows itself plainly in the muscles of Courfeyrac’s shoulders as Enjolras kneels to weave the folded cravat between Courfeyrac’s wrists and then around them, tying it off so that the ends of the silk hang to brush Courfeyrac’s linked fingers.

That done, he stands, tells Courfeyrac, “Watch,” (as though there were any chance Courfeyrac would look away), and turns to step toward Combeferre. Their kiss is slow and open-mouthed, intended for Courfeyrac as much as for themselves, and Enjolras lets Combeferre pull him close with an arm around his waist to press their hips together; for his part, he presses his thumb to the underside of Combeferre’s jawline, bites gently at Combeferre’s lower lip.

Combeferre pulls back to meet Enjolras’ eyes, his expression very sincere. Enjolras holds his gaze for a long moment before leaning to whisper, his lips brushing Combeferre’s ear, “Would you kneel when I request it?”

“Of course,” says Combeferre, stroking Enjolras’ hip – Enjolras inclines his head and then rounds the chair once again to kneel behind Courfeyrac, very still, with his lips a hair’s breadth from Courfeyrac’s neck.

He refrains from trailing his hand along Courfeyrac’s thigh as he reaches around the side of the chair, so that the first time he touches Courfeyrac is to trail the tips of two fingers down the front of his prick. At that, Courfeyrac’s hips jerk forward and his gasp is audible even through the cravat tied over his mouth; Enjolras lifts his fingers out of reach, and supposes he can hardly blame Courfeyrac for this loss of self-control.

He says, “I expect if we took the gag away now, you would beg us,” and the nod of Courfeyrac’s head and the muffled noise from behind the cravat assures him, quite unnecessarily, that he is correct.

Enjolras kisses across the tops of Courfeyrac’s shoulders, his lips meeting each bite-mark, and when he has done that he retracts his hand from where it hovers near Courfeyrac’s straining hips. Meeting Combeferre’s eyes over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, he says, “No, we will not give you your mouth back just yet,” and then with a nod, “Combeferre.”

As promised, Combeferre kneels between Courfeyrac’s legs; Enjolras feels Courfeyrac still as Combeferre meets his eyes, and then watches his muscles tense as Combeferre wraps a hand (no longer teasing with fingertips alone as Enjolras had done) around his prick and strokes once, twice. Enjolras runs his hand through Courfeyrac’s hair, twisting curls around his fingers and pulling gently, digging his nails into Courfeyrac’s scalp as Courfeyrac arches his neck.

He watches as Combeferre places a hand on each of Courfeyrac’s thighs and leans between them to take Courfeyrac’s prick into his mouth; Courfeyrac shudders from the top of his head to his curled toes, and behind his back he clenches his linked fingers tighter together. When he turns his head to the side Enjolras sees that the silk over his mouth is crumpled, folded as though he is biting down on it, or on his lip beneath it.

Enjolras curls his fingers in Courfeyrac’s hair and jerks his head back, hard and sudden, to bare his neck. When he leans forward to run his tongue up from the base of Courfeyrac’s neck to the junction of his jawline, he can see Courfeyrac’s hips trembling where Combeferre holds them down.

He keeps his grip firm in Courfeyrac’s hair as he replaces his mouth with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the base of Courfeyrac’s neck and squeezing gently; Courfeyrac’s eyes widen and Enjolras would wager it is only the force of Combeferre’s hands holding him down that stops him jerking his hips toward Combeferre’s mouth.

From the floor, Combeferre glances briefly upward to meet Enjolras’ eyes.

Without removing his hand from around Courfeyrac’s throat, Enjolras slips two fingers beneath the knot in the cravat at the back of Courfeyrac’s head and teases it undone to fall to the floor. Courfeyrac barely has time to gasp before Enjolras’ hand is covering his mouth in place of the gag; Enjolras leans to press his lips to Courfeyrac’s ear – he is quite gentle, in contrast to the strength of his grip on Courfeyrac’s mouth and neck – and whisper for him to stay quiet.

After that, it is hardly a full minute – in which Courfeyrac bites at Enjolras’ fingers in his mouth as though in an attempt to keep his voice down, and Enjolras feels Courfeyrac’s pulse jumping where his thumb presses the vein in his neck – before Combeferre sits backward, leaving Courfeyrac desperate and still unsatisfied. Courfeyrac is still pinned to the chair by Combeferre’s hands on his hips, so that his straining and pushing toward Combeferre gets him nowhere; he moans into Enjolras’ hand, and Enjolras presses his fingers down on Courfeyrac’s tongue, muffling the sound without quietening it.

Combeferre kneels up so his face is level with Courfeyrac’s, lifts Courfeyrac’s chin with two fingers, and says, “Ask.”

Enjolras is still pulling his fingers out of Courfeyrac’s mouth, trailing them across Courfeyrac’s cheek to tug and grip the curls at the back of his head, when Courfeyrac gasps, “God, Combeferre, I— _please_ ,” and Enjolras presses his thumb down on the base of Courfeyrac’s neck, feels his throat shift as he swallows.

Courfeyrac’s voice is breathless, unsteady, as he continues (with Combeferre watching his face throughout, intent and unmoving), “Please, please, _God_ , I am very close, and you are incredible – both of you – _please_ –”

When Combeferre digs his thumbs into the indents of Courfeyrac’s hipbones and leans to take Courfeyrac’s prick into his mouth, Enjolras tightens his grip on Courfeyrac’s neck. He’s dragging Courfeyrac’s head back by the hair when Courfeyrac moans, his voice choked, “Yes, yes, please –” and his shuddering hips jerk forward, Combeferre moving along with them; Enjolras feels Courfeyrac’s throat contract under his hand as he gasps.

When Courfeyrac slumps backward in the chair, all the tension gone out of his body, Enjolras releases his grip. He runs his thumb across Courfeyrac’s collarbone, strokes a hand through his hair, and then kneels to undo the knot in his cravat keeping Courfeyrac tied to the chair. He has kept his fingers linked tightly together throughout; Enjolras teases them apart, rubbing the tension out of the joints before standing to do the same to Courfeyrac’s shoulders. The action pushes a low, muffled moan out of Courfeyrac, who reaches up to grip Enjolras’ wrist briefly, his hand unsteady.

Combeferre, standing up, cups Courfeyrac’s face in both his hands and says, “You are quite alright?”

“Not in the slightest,” says Courfeyrac, smiling, “for that is a rather unexciting phrase; I am considerably better than ‘quite alright’ could possibly hope to describe.”

That draws a smile out of Combeferre, too, and he leans to kiss Courfeyrac’s mouth. It is a kiss that lasts for some time; indeed, Enjolras has paused in his attentions to Courfeyrac’s shoulders before the others pull apart. When Combeferre steps back, Courfeyrac gets to his feet – keeping hold of Enjolras’ wrist to tug him around the chair – and pulls Combeferre back to grin against his lips and say, “I hope you did not think I was going to abandon you both to finish on your own, my friends.”

Courfeyrac pulls them both back to the bed, stretches long and languid and catlike across it to kiss Enjolras back against the headboard even as he undoes Combeferre’s trousers.

Enjolras undresses himself, while at his side Courfeyrac presses himself against Combeferre’s front, pushing their hips together and tangling his hands in Combeferre’s hair. Courfeyrac wraps the fingers of one hand around Enjolras’ prick, takes Combeferre’s in the other, and for all he must be quite exhausted he moves with characteristic enthusiasm.

As ever, and even now, Courfeyrac is the loudest of the three of them; he hums his satisfaction into their kisses, whispers praise into their ears as he quickens the movement of his hands. Enjolras very nearly lets himself think of nothing but this bed, Courfeyrac’s hand on him and Combeferre at his side, and it is the closest he will get to detaching himself from the inside of his head. Then Combeferre turns to kiss Enjolras before breaking away with a quiet groan, shuddering – Enjolras closes his eyes and curls his fist in the sheets and gasps once as he spends himself over Courfeyrac’s hand.

“I hope neither of you plan on attending lectures tomorrow morning,” Courfeyrac says a minute later, as the three of them lie, unmoving, their limbs intertwined. He strokes Enjolras’ hair off his forehead, and continues, “because I, for one, fancy sleeping until noon, like Descartes, and I will be very unhappy if you do not join me.”

Combeferre simply rolls his eyes and tucks his arm closer around Courfeyrac’s waist and says, “You are fortunate that I have finished the week’s reading already.”

“I do not plan on putting the _Social Contract_ aside; but perhaps I shall bring it to bed tomorrow, instead,” says Enjolras, and permits himself a smile.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> apparently my reputation now demands that every sex scene I write must involve late 18th – early 19th century French political philosophy. there are worse things, I guess.
> 
> if you want to read Rousseau’s Social Contract you can do so [here](http://www.online-literature.com/rousseau/social-contract-or-principles-/) \- Enjolras also alludes to it in his "Citizens, do you picture the future" speech in the Brick, which incidentally is where the title of this fic comes from - though unfortunately Combeferre and Courfeyrac will probably not be making out on your bed as you read (believe me, I would be a much bigger fan of Rousseau if that was a guaranteed side-effect).


End file.
